


Bleed like Gold

by meekan (atomeek)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in the Bathroom, M/M, PWP, and the obligatory international meeting in the background, bathroom blow jobs, literally that is all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 09:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomeek/pseuds/meekan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleed like Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Two days ago, I would have never thought I'd be writing APH again after 6 years although back then, this wasn't what I was shipping lol. But then again, I've been feeling pretty nostalgic so this is the result haha.

“I can’t believe you,” Spain groans, leaning back against the closing door of the bathroom. “Sending me that kind of text during a meeting, you asshole.”

“You promised,” England shrugs, leaning casually against the counter between two sinks, back to back with the reflection of his well-pressed suit. “You promised me one free orgasm, anytime, anywhere.”

Spain makes a face before he remembers that England has never censored himself around him, never bothered to when the only image they would ever see of each other would be when they were covered in blood and fire and shining like a million gold coins, lifetimes and lifetimes ago.

“I was drunk,” Spain deadpans even though he is already reaching for the lapels of his own jacket, moving to take it off completely. “We were both drunk.”

“Regardless,” England raises a brow, shrugging again and the action is mirrored behind him like a growing second shadow. “A promise is a promise.”

Spain lets out a long suffering sigh, keenly aware of the eyes that track him as he removes his blazer, draping it over the door of a stall. He isn’t about to take any chances afterwards and he realises, with a certain bit of humour, that he’s glad he had chosen to wear a white shirt today.

As he returns to England, he rolls up his sleeves and the sight is familiar to England, enough so that he has to wet his lips in anticipation, eyes gleaming at every little movement that brings Spain closer.

They are the same height, or at least close enough that they could see eye to eye, if they wanted to, when they stood nose to nose. Their bodies are even more similar in build and because there’s never been much physical advantage or disadvantage between them, they have learned to be creative and sometimes—though rarely—yielding.

England slides a hand over one shoulder and then the other, grin growing as Spain tilts his head ever so slightly downwards and that was the signal he is looking for. Adding just the slightest bit of pressure with his palms, Spain is dropping to the tiled floor before him.

There is something about seeing Spain on his knees, something that brings heat rushing through England’s veins like a tidal wave, surging until he is overcome with a need to see more.

“Seriously,” Spain huffs out in disdain. That furrow between his brows is rare—except around England. Spain makes a lot of exceptions around England, just as England does for him. There aren’t a lot of nations England would drop his pants for in the toilets during a meeting after all. “And I just got these pants dry cleaned.”

“You say that as if you weren’t enjoying every second of this,” England grins sardonically only to see it mirrored back at him from below, Spain’s teeth flashing in the yellow lights as he bites his bottom lip then releases it when he catches England watching intently, watching him unbutton and then unzip.

Spain’s fingers are unsurprisingly warm when his hands dip past the waistband of England’s pants, pulling them down just low enough. Even with only the tapered tips of his fingers resting against his cock, England feels as if he’s been touched by the sun, burned as he plays with fire.

“Hurry up, prat,” England snaps, fingers tightening against the countertop, hips just leant back enough for the edge to dig uncomfortably into his back and he wonders how he was ever horny enough to cash in Spain’s promise here of all places.

“ _¿Qué prisa tienes?_ ” Spain grins, lips barely brushing against the sensitive skin with every curl of his tongue over the foreign syllables. He doesn’t even spare England a glance, his darkening green eyes staring intently enough at the length in his hands to make England squirm, cradling as if he has ever known how to be gentle.

“The meeting adjourns in ten minutes,” England grits out, just as Spain begins to stroke, hands sliding languidly up and down and it’s a relief and a tease all the same. A breathy sigh escapes England, a breath he didn’t know he was holding at all, and he allows himself to close his eyes, concentrate solely on the feeling of familiar fingers curving around his cock, the same calloused palm skimming over all the right places.

The lips are sudden and unexpected and so is his mouth, the sensation of being completely engulfed in a wet heat, like being drenched in sun-warmed waters in the middle of an endless ocean.

“Fuck you.” He spits out, eyes snapping wide open in shock, hips jerking back as his spine curves into an arch like a startled cat. His hands leave the counter in a flurry to steady himself and his fingers find home in dark brown curls, tightening with every bob of the other’s head.

“Do you want to?” Spain manages to gasp out, the words slurring worse than they did when he promised this favour, before his mouth continues relentlessly.

England’s voice breaks when he looks down, a silent _o—oh_ dying on his lips and even though he can barely keep standing, knees quaking and arms trembling, he has enough strength to sharply yank Spain back by his hair.

His lips are slicked red and wet and he has a cocky expression on his face as if he was completely in control, backed by a drawn out moan that spills from his mouth like a broken gramophone.

“Is this too much for you, _Inglaterra_?” He rasps out, throat clearly used. Pre-come, spit, or both beads on his bottom lip, trailing a shiny line down his chin that is missed by his lapping tongue. “Is this enough?”

“Never,” England smirks, bringing a thumb down to smear the corner of the other’s lips. There are no stains, except the ones that could only be seen when the fluorescent lights caught it just so. He holds Spain’s foggy gaze as he sucks his thumb clean, the sound bouncing off the clean tiles around the room. “I could take and take and take from you and it still wouldn’t be enough, España.”

Spain laughs even when his jaw visibly slackens, eyes remaining on England as he wets his opening lips and moves his head lower. England can barely keep his eyes open, can only groan with his head thudding against the mirror at his back.

It’s a quick affair afterwards; Spain makes sure of it when he allows England to set the pace with a bruising hold on his head and steady thrusts into his lax mouth. In a few minutes, England comes with a last few stuttered jerks and salt blooms on Spain’s tongue, familiar in every which way. Their pants to catch their breaths echo against the tiles of the room and make them sound wearier than they actually are. With a grimace, Spain pulls back from England’s weakening grip, a last few curls sliding from pale fingers as they detangle from each other.

“Are you satisfied now?” Spain drawls out, a little to test the state of his voice voice but mostly to aggravate England who is leaning against the counter, legs sprawled on either side of Spain’s knees.

England flops his head back and eyes the country sitting between his legs with a smirk, “Never.”

Spain rolls his eyes, pushing himself up off the tiles that have left matching dust lines on his knees. On the way up, he grabs England’s wrist and glances at the time on the watch face.

“Two more minutes,” he smirks as England reflexively snatches his arm back. He looks at the irritated expression that settles back on England’s face, his default appearance, and can’t help but press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a transparent mark if only to piss the other off just a little bit more.

“Oi,” England grumbles, hand catching onto the back of Spain’s head until green sees green. “If you’re going to kiss me at least do it properly, twat.”

They crash together and they could almost hear the wood splintering in the background. It’s not like coming home, never. But it’s familiar, this game they’ve been playing for enough years to loose count after a few hundred, long enough for it to become genuinely enjoyable.

Their lips move slowly, despite where they are, though it would never call it gentle. Everything is a fight between them, a give and take and take and take and as expected, there is always teeth, even if it’s just a quick nip like Spain does now.

“No blood,” he promises, drawing back with a smile on his face. “Not today.”

England scoffs but still brings a hand to wipe at his mouth, uses that same hand to swipe a thumb over Spain’s reddened lips.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling.”

Spain grins back, his eyes shining like gold, “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also first M-rated fic so con crit?????? Or not lol. ~~Also the (one line of!) Spanish is google-translated and I'm 200% it's wrong. I'm so sorry, please correct me.~~
> 
> Edit: A huge thank you to fakesheep-luna for helping out with fixing the line of Spanish!


End file.
